


The Star to Every Wandering Bark

by poestheblackcat



Series: Bright Star 'verse [1]
Category: James Bond (Classic movies), James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Q (James Bond), Family, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt Q (James Bond), Hurt/Comfort, Protective 00 agents, Q Backstory (James Bond), Q Has a Cat (James Bond), Q is the son of a 00 agent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-28 02:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30132516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poestheblackcat/pseuds/poestheblackcat
Summary: AU story in which Q is seriously injured when Blofeld’s men shoot at the car inSpectre.Bond and the other agents realize just how much their Quartermaster means to them. Features OCs (Q’s friends and family) but no romantic pairings. Mostly hurt/comfort and family.
Relationships: James Bond & Q, Q & Alec Trevelyan
Series: Bright Star 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2217681
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This is the first story I've written in a long time, and the first one in this fandom. I watched _Dr. No_ again when Sir Sean Connery passed away and somehow ended up reading James Bond fanfiction, and now I'm evidently writing it. 
> 
> Title from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116. The line is a nautical reference to the North Star/Pole Star/Polaris, which is a star often used in navigation due to its nearly-fixed position aligned with the north pole. I’m using it as an allusion to the Fighting Temeraire and to Q being the guide to all of the agents.
> 
> Note: I dropped about ten years from Q’s age, but I have reasons, which will be explained later.

Q typed as quickly as he could, tearing down firewalls, demolishing level after level. He had to take down Nine Eyes before it went live at midnight. He knew better than anyone how terrible omnipresent, omnipotent surveillance would be. The world would devolve into an Orwellian dystopia.

“They’ve seen us,” Moneypenny said urgently from the front seat of the SUV. “Reverse!”

Blofeld’s men began shooting at them as Tanner turned the car around, but Q only gave a quick glance through the windshield; he had work to do. The tires squealed loudly, and Q was thrown against the car door by the force of the turn. 

Frustrated, he growled under his breath. How was he supposed to work if his laptop kept sliding around on his lap?

Righting himself, he had no more than half a moment to react as the window to his right shattered inwards in an explosion of glass and pain. 

His head snapped to the left, and hot fire exploded in his shoulder. The laptop slid to the floor with a thud, and his body crumpled to the side. 

As the world went dark, he heard Moneypenny scream his name. 

_“Q!”_

. . . . .

Bond sat by the quartermaster’s bedside, staring at the still, pale figure under the stark white sheets. Back stiff and arms crossed, he hadn’t moved since the younger man had been rolled out of the operating room some hours before.

The machines beeped steadily, comfortingly. Q had flatlined three times before they could stabilize him.

The thin chest rose and fell, each labored breath a harsh reminder to Bond of how close the skinny boffin had come to death. The unconscious man -- boy? -- looked younger than ever without his glasses and with his face slack in medically-induced slumber under the oxygen mask.

A flicker of movement -- rather than the sound of footsteps -- drew the agent’s eyes to the door.

A man had appeared there, an imposing figure in a black overcoat, buttoned up against the chilly November night. He paused, eyes flickering around the room (searching for threats, weapons, and possible exits, Bond’s mind provided automatically) before quickly settling on James as the most dangerous entity in the vicinity.

All this took no more than a second, and the man moved into the room, walking slowly and silently with his sharp eyes locked onto Bond, assessing him.

Bond took the opportunity to examine the other man in turn: Tall, but not overly so. Middle-aged -- late sixties, perhaps, with a stern, well-tanned face and thinning hair that was once dark. Neatly trimmed beard, grizzled with gray. Black coat of good quality wool -- old, but well-cared for and finely-tailored. Fit -- the man moved with a grace and fluidity that belied his years.

Bond recognized the type: ex-military, possibly more. Probably more (ex-agent, possibly?) especially considering his presence here.

The other man acknowledged the mutual once-over with a barely perceptible nod and hurriedly moved towards Q’s bedside, dismissing Bond completely as a threat.

For one absurd moment, Bond didn’t know whether he should be offended at being so summarily dismissed. After all, he was not one of the most dangerous men in Britain for nothing.

As the man moved closer to the unconscious Q, Bond shifted and placed his hand on the holstered gun under his jacket. No need to stand; the slight movement was enough to convey his message: Anyone who wanted to get to Q would have to go through him first.

The intruder paused at the movement, eyes flickering back to meet Bond’s, who was suddenly struck at the familiarity of the slightly annoyed expression in the man’s green eyes.

Green, like the quartermaster’s. The man had Q’s expressive mouth, too. 

Ah.

Q had once told Bond that his father had been a military man.

“007, I presume,” the man who was probably Q’s father said before Bond could speak. “Damien Drake.”

Bond’s mind stuttered to a stop, even as he responded with his usual “Bond, James Bond.”

Drake. _Damien_ Drake? Retired double-oh agent Damien Drake? Drake, who had been 007 before Bond’s immediate predecessor? _That_ Drake?

“Yes,” the man said softly, lips twitching, much like Q’s did when he was amused, “That Drake. He didn’t tell you, did he?”

_“The little shit,”_ Bond breathed. His father. Q’s father had been a bloody double-oh and he hadn’t bothered to tell Bond.

Drake had by this time turned his gaze back to the pale figure on the bed, sighing inaudibly as he took in the bandages and livid scrapes that stood out on the white face.

“Well, young man,” he murmured, brushing a dark curl off of Q’s forehead, “you are determined to worry me to death, aren’t you? Forget gray hairs; I’ll be completely bald by the time you’re thirty if you keep this up.”

The beeping of the machines was the only response.

Drake sighed again, trailing his fingers gently down the side of the still face, examining the cuts from the glass on the thin cheeks. A calloused thumb rubbed gently at the tired purple shadows under the sunken eyes. He examined the bandage on Q’s temple carefully before moving on to the shoulder wound. With brisk, businesslike movements, he shifted the sheets to peek at how far the bandages went, and tsked softly as he smoothed them back into place.

“Tanner said that he was shot?” Drake asked, not looking away from his son.

Bond nodded. “The car he was in was involved in a shootout. They got him in the shoulder and grazed his head.”

This was met with a hiss and Drake leaned over to look more closely at the taped-over gunshot wound on Q’s temple.

“The head wound wasn’t serious. Minor concussion. Should be alright, although one never knows for sure with those. They're monitoring it. The one in his shoulder nicked an artery. He would have been alright if he’d gone to the hospital right away,” Bond continued, watching his colleague’s father with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, “but he was the only one who could have hacked the system. He insisted on finishing the job. M and the others wrapped his shoulder and kept pressure on it as well as they could, but he was bleeding heavily enough that he passed out.”

Bond looked at the thinly-pressed lips and took a chance. “We nearly lost him. His heart stopped three times,” he said flatly.

Drake had not yet taken his eyes from his son’s face. He breathed deeply, then asked with deceptive calmness, “Did he complete the mission?”

Bond stiffened with anger. “Yes,” he said, and it was only his training that kept him from spitting it out, “he took the entire network down.” He tilted his chin up: a challenge. “Singlehandedly. Literally. He couldn’t use his right hand by that time.”

The green eyes finally moved to meet his and softened in approval at what they saw before returning to the pale face.

“That’s my boy,” the ex-agent said, a fond smile spreading over his face. “Stubborn idiot.” He brushed Q’s hair back again, to no avail. “Don’t ever do that again, son, or we will have _Words.”_

Bond barked out a surprised laugh. Drake had said it exactly the way Q often had. _‘Words,’_ as if capitalized and italicized, significant. _(“Bring back your equipment in one piece, 007, or we will have_ Words.”)

“That he is,” Bond agreed. “Surprisingly idiotic for a man with such a high IQ. I’m inclined to have _Words_ with him myself once he wakes up.”

The other man cocked a brow. “Oh?”

Bond nodded and gave him a smirk. “Quartermasters are supposed to stay safe in Q-Branch and not go gallivanting around the city getting shot at in the middle of the night.”

Drake nodded and agreed. “That was certainly the understanding back in my day.”

Having come to a sort of accord, Bond stood and gestured to his chair. There were other chairs in the room, of course, but this one had a view of the door as well as the advantage of being situated close enough to the bed that one could hold Q’s hand if one wanted to do so.

“Would you like some tea or coffee, sir? I was thinking of getting something.”

Drake smiled, but it was strained. “Tea would be lovely, Agent Bond. Thank you.”

Bond glanced back at father and son as he left the room.

Drake had settled himself down in the chair and had taken the limp hand in both of his, holding it like something fragile and precious. Though his head was bent, Bond could see that there were tears in his eyes, and the strong shoulders sagged. The man suddenly looked old and haggard.

Bond tore his gaze away with a shake of his head, frustrated at being unable to do anything. There was nothing more useless in the world than a man of action unable to act.

. . . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this universe, Timothy Dalton’s 007 is named “Damien Drake” (a reference to Dalton’s secret agent character in the incredibly hammy and cheesy _Looney Tunes: Back in Action)_ instead of “James Bond” (because it would be weird to have more than one). I’m only borrowing the name. This Damien Drake has nothing to do with the Looney Tunes character. Drake is also Q’s father. 
> 
> There was one more 007 between Drake and Daniel Craig’s Bond, Pierce Brosnan’s 007 (Sam Carmichael -- another borrowed name, but more on that later). That’s how I’m explaining the longevity of the 007 designation: they were different people, and only the latest one is named Bond. This explains the headstone for Andrew and Monique Bond in _Skyfall._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond and Q's father talk.

Bond returned with the tea after taking the long way back, partly to allow Drake to have some time alone with his son, and partly because he needed to make sure that the hospital building was secure. 

He also took a minute to update M, Tanner, and Moneypenny on Drake’s arrival; it never hurt to double-check facts. Eve, Q’s close friend and confidante, had been especially concerned. She had waited impatiently with Bond for Q to come out of surgery, but had been summoned back to HQ to assist in the cleanup before she could see him.

. . . . .

Q had not been transported to the medical wing of the new SIS building (formerly known as Denbigh’s Joint Intelligence Services building) because Medical hadn’t finished setting up yet. The medical wing in the Churchill-era tunnels that had been MI6’s home for the past three years had already been partially dismantled in preparation for the move and were in no shape to accommodate a seriously-injured agent. 

Q had instead been taken to a nearby hospital. On the way there, he had flatlined once, and then twice more on the operating table.

Bond hadn’t been there for that; he had been informed later, after spending agonizing hours pacing the hospital hallways waiting for news. 

He had nearly left London with Madeleine Swann without even knowing that Q had been injured at all. In fact, he would have gone, if he hadn’t noticed M’s blood-soaked state on the bridge.

“What happened?” he’d demanded, as soon as Blofeld had been taken out of earshot. Tanner, his shirt also red with blood, was standing nearby, but the others were missing. “Where are Q and Eve?” 

“Q got shot,” Mallory had said tiredly, rubbing his forehead with a blood-stained hand, “Eve’s with him. He took down Nine Eyes, though. He insisted on getting to the servers directly, even if we had to carry him up there, stubborn bastard. He’s in a bad way.”

Bond had felt the dread spread through his innards like ice, nearly making him lose his breath. That much blood was never a good thing.

Q was...the Quartermaster. He wasn’t supposed to get hurt. He wasn’t supposed to be in danger -- especially not of dying -- notwithstanding the fact that quartermasters are not immortal, and that indeed, the current Q’s predecessor had perished in the explosion at MI6.

“Where is he?” Bond had asked tersely, already making his way towards the line of cars. He would ‘liberate’ one to take him to wherever Q was.

“St. Thomas’,” Tanner (steady, dependable Tanner) had said, walking briskly to keep up with Bond, “Admitted under the alias Fredrick Lyon. They know he’s MI6.”

At this Bond had shot Tanner a sharp look, questioning the last statement. 

“They picked him up from the Joint Intelligence Services building. Bit too obvious to hide,” Tanner had said. “Would be easier for us to explain the gunshot wounds and why he needs security anyway.”

Bond hadn’t replied ( _‘wounds,’_ not singular, but plural, ‘gunshot _wounds’),_ only swinging himself into a police car. One of the policemen loitering nearby had looked startled, but Tanner had waved him off with a terse “MI6. You can pick it up from St. Thomas’.”

As he had slammed the car door shut, Bond had caught Madeleine staring after him from across the bridge. Their eyes had met, and she had nodded at him, before slipping away into the crowd and out of his life forever.

. . . . .

Drake was sitting at his son’s bedside, the slender hand safely nestled in his broader ones, when Bond returned. His expression was impassive, as though the vulnerability that Bond had glimpsed earlier had never been. He sat with his back straight and didn’t move as Bond walked in, apart from a quick glance at him.

“Any change?” Bond asked, though he knew better than to hope. 

“No,” Drake replied, taking the paper cup that Bond held out to him. “Thank you, Bond.” 

It was only due to his training that Bond caught the slight twitch the ex-agent gave when he realized that the tea was Earl Grey, prepared exactly the way Q preferred it.

“Hope it’s alright,” Bond said, as though he hadn’t noticed. “Don’t know how you take it.”

“This is fine, thanks.”

Bond dragged another chair over and set it at the foot of the bed. He angled it so he would have a good view of the door.

They sat in silence for some time, the quiet broken only by the beeping of the heart monitor and the nearly inaudible hissing of the oxygen.

“Are you here as a friend, or security?” Drake finally asked, still staring at his son’s face.

“Security,” Bond said immediately, then sighed. “Both.” He paused. “He’s my friend.”

Drake nodded and took another sip of tea. “Good. He’s always had a hard time fitting in. Making friends and such. He’s much better now he’s grown, but it’s always nice to hear that he’s getting along with people.”

“Can’t imagine why he’d have trouble making friends,” Bond smirked. “Couldn’t be that caustic wit of his, or the scary smart intellect that he isn’t afraid to show off.”

Drake chuckled. “Couldn’t possibly be that, no.”

“Or the fact that he’s far more dangerous than he looks,” Bond continued, “like how he could cause World War III with only his laptop if he got bored enough.”

Drake nodded. “Only in MI6 could he find friends who wouldn’t run away screaming once they found out.”

“Adrenaline junkies?” Bond asked.

“Or fools.” The accompanying half-smile was a lot like Q’s when he bantered with Bond. 

“Or fools,” Bond sighed in agreement into his cup. 

“He keeps us alive,” he offered. “Hard not to appreciate a man who can do that so well. And...he’s interesting. And not afraid of us. Not a bit. He’s never scared, even when one of us is coming off of that high after a mission and tries to corner him or intimidate him in some way. He just looks annoyed and shoos us off to the gym to burn it off. Like...like we’re nothing more than his pet cats instead of bloody assassins.”

He paused, unused to speaking so much at one time, and sent a sideways glance at his companion. “I suppose that’s your influence. Who’d be afraid of double-oh agents if they were raised by one? I suppose he was handling guns before he left primary school.”

Drake smirked. “Not exactly, but only for a different reason than you think. He only went to primary for a few weeks. Didn’t play nice with the other kids. They were too dull, he said. So I had him tutored instead and sent him off to uni a few years after that.”

Bond snorted. “Too dull.”

“He’s a quick study in most subjects, but the lesson of curbing one’s ego took a bit longer than usual.” This was said wryly into the lid of the cup, a habit that Q had apparently picked up from his father.

 _‘Not such a clever boy,’_ Bond remembered, and winced. “Mm,” he agreed. “But he’s got a better reason than most to have a big ego.”

They sat in silence again, watching the boy breathe.

This time it was Bond who broke the stillness in the room. 

“Did you leave the service to look after him?” he asked. “You were at the height of your career then.”

Drake took another sip of his now-lukewarm tea. “Yes,” he said at last. “Best decision I ever made.” 

Bond looked at him wondering if there would be any more information forthcoming. He didn’t have long to wait. 

“I couldn’t very well leave him to be adopted. If he even lived that long.” The older man grimaced. “They told me he wouldn’t. He was extremely premature.”

Bond frowned. “You retired even though you thought he might die?”

“I got attached.” Drake said simply. “I took one look at him and fell in love.” He huffed out a small laugh. “They don’t warn you against that, you know. They give you all sorts of training about how not to fall in love with a target or a mark, or even just someone you meet. They don’t warn you about tiny defenseless creatures small enough to fit in your hand that can’t even breathe on their own. I couldn’t bear the thought of ever letting go of him. Even if he’d died, I would have been too compromised to stay.” 

He sighed and took another sip of tea. “They really should put that in the training regimen. I suspect that the orphans they so like to recruit are particularly vulnerable to it.”

Bond shrugged. “Moot point now,” he said. “They sterilize us when we start the double-oh program.”

“Ah,” Drake said dryly. “Lost too many agents to unplanned children, I suppose. Waste of valuable assets.”

Bond raised an eyebrow at him. “There are more?”

Drake returned the look and sipped his tea.

“So his mother’s dead?” Bond asked. “If the only other option was to put him up for adoption…”

Drake gave a short nod. “Accident. An actual accident, nothing to do with my line of work. Died in the ambulance. They had to cut him out of her to save him.”

 _“Macduff was from his mother’s womb untimely ripped,”_ Bond said softly, the quote rising unbidden in his mind. For some reason, he always associated Q with Shakespeare and poetry. Perhaps it was the quietly passionate, eloquent way Q had first introduced himself in front of that painting in the National Gallery. “I’m sorry.”

“She was just a woman. She wouldn’t have meant anything to me, not really, except that she gave me my son. And he never knew her.” Green eyes slid to look at him. “Do you think me cold?”

“No,” Bond said shortly. “I know how it is. Just someone to warm your bed in between missions. You don’t expect it to turn into anything, and neither does she.”

“I thought you’d understand.”

“So he’s twenty-five?” Bond asked, knowing instinctively that the other man wouldn’t mind the segue. “You retired in 1990.”

“Been reading old double-oh files, have we?” Drake smirked. “Yes, he’s twenty-five. Does that change anything?”

“No, it doesn’t change a thing,” Bond responded promptly. “He’s still the best at what he does. Wouldn’t matter if he was twenty, to be honest. It might have done, back when we first met. But now?” He pursed his lips and shook his head decisively. “No, it doesn’t matter. He’s more than proven what he can do.”

“Good,” Drake nodded. “That’s good.”

. . . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q’s alias “Fredrick Lyon” is taken from Q actor Ben Whishaw’s character’s name in _The Hour_ (Freddie Lyon). “Danny” comes from Whishaw’s character in _London Spy_ (Danny Holt). I’m only borrowing the name.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other double-oh agents come to visit.

Bond had been expecting them. 

They slunk in, like an army of hungry jungle cats, prowling silently around the hospital bed. With obsidian-sharp eyes, they watched the frail figure on the bed breathe, restless and ready to spring into action at any moment. 

Then, as one, they turned on Bond. 

“How could you let this happen?” Alec Trevelyan, 006, hissed at his oldest friend, keeping his voice down only for the sake of the injured man in the bed. He grabbed the front of Bond’s shirt and shoved him back against the wall, unresisting, his furious blue eyes boring into Bond’s guilty ones. 

“You dragged him into this, James,” 006 continued, shaking with fury, “didn’t you? You know how he won’t say no to you, nor any of us, when we ask him to do something like this.” 

001, Edward Donne, slammed his hand on the wall near Bond’s face and towered over him. “How could you put him in danger like that?”

One by one, the double-oh agents crowded around Bond, accusing him angrily (but quietly) of putting their quartermaster in harm’s way. 

Bond didn’t reply; he was well aware of how right they were. 

“Enough,” a quiet voice said firmly. “That’s enough.”

All eyes turned to the older man in the room, who had been virtually ignored in favor of the unconscious quartermaster and the reprehensible Bond. 

“What,” Damien Drake said in clipped tones, much like Q when he was annoyed, “do you think my son would say if he saw you all squabbling like children? And how,” he went on, “do you think he would react if he heard how you believe that he can’t make important decisions for himself?”

He looked around the room at the suddenly chagrined double-ohs. “Hmm?”

Scarlett Papava, 004 and the only female currently on the double-oh roster, cleared her throat and stepped forward, smiling pleasantly, seductively. “You’re his father? Your son is a brilliant man.”

Drake fixed her with a Look. “Yes, I am. And yes, he is. And you, agent, are trying to distract me. So I’ll ask you.” 

“Do you think, agent,” he said slowly, walking towards her, stalking forward like the predator he was, “that my son is unaware that his very position itself puts him in danger? Do you think that he is too young or too innocent to decide whether something is worth risking everything for, including his life?” 

“Or perhaps,” he purred, and the hair on the backs of each of their necks stood straight up, “you doubt that he would not be just as willing as any of you to fight for his country or for the right cause? Do you, perhaps, think that he only knows about numbers and computers and gadgets? That he couldn’t possibly know about the real world and how dangerous it all is, outside of the safety of the bowels of MI6? That agents and civilians alike can get killed when great powers battle? Well?” he said quietly, bright green eyes pinning her down where she stood.

Scarlett swallowed. “No, sir,” she said, forcing her voice to remain even. She didn’t know who this man was, apart from his familial relation to Q, but he was definitely exuding danger in the way she had only encountered in other highly-experienced assassins. 

Alec Trevelyan let Bond go without sparing him a second glance and walked around the other agents to stand in front of this suddenly and surprisingly dangerous man. 

“Colonel Drake,” he said formally, uncharacteristically, “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I only wish it had been under better circumstances. I’m 006, Alec Trevelyan, and these are some of the other double-ohs. We do respect Q, both as a friend and as our quartermaster. We didn’t mean to imply that he’s naive. He deals with death on a daily basis. We know that. Our only reasoning -- and it is a poor excuse -- is that we are all extremely fond of your son, so I’m sure you can understand that we are rather overprotective of him.”

Drake nodded, and the dangerous aura subsided. “I understand perfectly. He’s my son, so you can only imagine how...fond I am of him. In some ways, in my mind, he is still the baby I brought home from the hospital, but he has made it abundantly clear that he will not tolerate being treated as a child.” 

He cleared his throat and suddenly looked a little sheepish for the first time. “I might have learned that the hard way.” He looked at them significantly, prompting them to finally relax and even smile and chuckle softly. 

They were certainly all quite familiar with their young quartermaster’s cold fury and clever manner of revenge when people underestimated or patronized him.

Bond adjusted his now-wrinkled clothes and glared at Alec, albeit playfully. “I can’t believe that Q told you that his father is Damien Drake. I’m double-oh bloody seven, dammit.”

Alec ignored the ripple of surprise and shock that the other agents didn’t manage to hide at the revelation that Q’s father had been an agent straight out of MI6 legend, and merely shrugged. “I’ve always known. I was there when we hired him. I never met such a cheeky, cocky little git.” 

He laughed at the memory. “There I was, thinking this skinny little teenaged genius didn’t even have basic survival skills, like knowing when to be scared, when it turned out that he was the most dangerous person in Britain. Sat there in the abandoned old warehouse where I’d kidnapped him to at gunpoint and calculated engineering problems in his head instead of pissing his pants worrying if I was going to kill him.”

He nodded at Drake. “I didn’t know then that you’d taught him...well, everything I’d want my kid to know if I had one.”

Drake acknowledged the compliment with a small shrug. “I certainly wasn’t about to let my baby boy go off to uni on his own without knowing how to defend himself properly.”

Alec raised his eyebrow at him. “He consistently scores better than any double-oh on the firing range,” he said, deadpan. “And threw 009 here flat on his back in three seconds.”

009, Caleb Turner, sputtered. “In my defense, I thought I should go easy on him. I didn’t want to snap him in half!”

They all looked fondly at the slumbering Q, who remained oblivious to the affectionately grinning assassins surrounding him. 

Alec walked over to the bed and sighed. “Well, Q, that’s us sorted, then, isn’t it? Not even awake and you’ve given us a talking-to. But we can’t help it, though, can we?” he asked, leaning down to ruffle Q’s curls gently. “We like you, and we’re possessive of people we like, since there aren’t that many of them.” 

He dropped a light kiss on his friend’s forehead. “Feel better, Danny-boy. We’ll be back soon.”

Scarlett huffed and sidled up to him. “Now you're just showing off how close you are to him, Alec,” she said, crossing her arms. “We love him, too, you possessive bastard.”

She squared her shoulders and spoke seriously to Drake, without a hint of flirtation. “I meant what I said before. Your son is a good man and a great quartermaster. MI6 has never had a better one, and never will.”

“He cares,” 001 -- Edward -- said, “He cares about us agents. He doesn’t treat us the way some higher-ups do, like we’re not people, only numbers with a license to kill. He cares about getting us home in one piece, and he treats us like we’re worth it.”

“I know.” Drake looked around at all of the double-oh agents. “I know all this, not because of what you’ve told me, but because of the simple fact that you are all here instead of taking off straight to your missions. I suppose you wouldn’t obey orders unless you were given a straight answer for exactly why my son wasn’t the one equipping you today?”

The most dangerous people in Britain eyed each other guiltily.

Drake smiled softly. “Yes, I thought so. And now you’ve seen him,” he said firmly, “so off you go. Your country needs you.”

A soft sigh went around the room, as though something in the lethal assassins had settled. 

“And agents,” Drake said quietly, “Good luck out there in the field.”

The agents all paused, waiting, expectant…

“And please bring back your equipment in one piece,” Bond finished glibly with a smirk. 

The other double-ohs (except for Alec, who laughed) turned in unison to glare at him. 

“Hypocrite,” 009 accused, shaking his head with a snort. “You’re the worst of us, Bond. Q’s always complaining about you.”

Bond grinned unrepentantly. “It didn’t sound right without that last part, though, did it?” He turned serious. “Really, though. Be extra careful. You know how stroppy Q gets when we’re hurt.”

They nodded grimly and filed out the door, Scarlett stopping to kiss Q’s cheek affectionately. Alec was the last to leave. 

“You,” he pointed a finger at Bond with a stern glare. “You look after him, James.”

Bond nodded solemnly. “I’ll protect him with my life, Alec. You know that.”

Alec and Bond stared at each other for a long moment before the former turned to leave with a respectful “sir” in Drake’s direction.

Drake sighed softly. “So that’s them. The new generation.”

Bond adjusted the collar of his shirt. It was wrinkled beyond all repair. Damn Alec. “Yes. What do you think?”

Drake shook his head. “Some things never change.” He stood for some time, staring contemplatively at the doorway after the agents. 

Bond looked askance at him. 

The ex-agent shook his head with a wry smile. “Savoring the nostalgia. I miss the old days sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” Bond questioned, only half joking. 

Drake thought for a long moment. “Only sometimes,” he repeated. “Then my bad back and achy knees and the results of all the poor choices I made in my misspent youth remind me of how foolish such a sentiment is.”

He sat down in his chair with a gusty sigh. “I’ll leave the adventures to you younger people.”

Bond sat too. “You really don’t miss it?” he asked after a while. “The adrenaline rush?”

Drake gave him a look. “This one here made his first bomb at the age of two out of a toaster, cutlery, and bits and ends he found around the house. I thought at the time that maybe it was just the terrible twos.” He paused dramatically. “It was not the terrible twos.”

Bond sniggered.

“So no,” Drake finished, “I do not miss the adrenaline rush, especially since I still get them regularly, courtesy of this lad here. For example, as a result of a call in the middle of the night telling me that my son was shot and is seriously injured.”

Bond looked at his companion, whose whole demeanor had fallen back into deep worry. “You don’t like him working for MI6, do you?”

Drake sighed. “He’d be safer as a chemical researcher or maths teacher. But he’d be terribly bored and extremely unhappy. He’s come alive since he started at MI6. He loves the work, the people, even the danger. I won’t take that from him, even if he’d let me.” 

He smiled a sad, soft smile at Bond. “Your friend is right; we double-ohs tend to be overprotective and possessive of those we love. I love him enough to let him grow up and go his own way, even if it breaks my heart to do it.”

Bond was quiet for a while. “He’s lucky,” he said, and he knew that the slight envy in his voice was as clear as daylight to the former agent. “I hope he knows how lucky he is to have someone like you, Drake.”

A sudden huff from the bed interrupted their sentimental tête-à-tête. “I do,” Q slurred, his voice muffled by sleep and the oxygen mask. “But please, for all tha’s holy, shuddup an’ lemme sleep. M’ head hurts like th’ dickens.”

The two 007s -- former and present -- chuckled, bright grins nearly splitting their faces in two. 

Damien Drake leaned over and kissed his son’s brow. “I love you, Danny. Very much,” he said softly, stroking the unruly dark curls.

Danny Drake, also known as Freddie Lyon, best known as Q or the Quartermaster, cracked open an eye blearily. “L’ve you too, Dad,” he mumbled. “Sleep?”

Calloused fingers gently carded through Q’s hair. “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

. . . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out my story [The Recruit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/30172500) if you're interested in how Alec and Q first met.
> 
> The double-ohs: Some of the names are from the James Bond Wiki (Edward Donne, Scarlett Papava, and Alec Trevelyan). Other designations have no actual names associated with them, so I’ve taken the liberty of making them up. 
> 
> Alec Trevelyan (006) is a popular character in this fandom, so I’ve co-opted him for my fic. He’s about Craig!Bond’s age, rather than from the Brosnan-era, and that whole _GoldenEye_ storyline didn’t happen, at least with this Alec Trevelyan. Maybe it happened with another 006, but that’s a different story. I like fanon Alec (a bit more lighthearted than the other agents, pyromaniac, drops Russian into his speech on occasion, likes vodka), so I’ve incorporated some of that into this ‘verse. I have him in more stories, interacting more with Q.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of sick Q and hurt/comfort. Why? Because I can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a medical professional. There is medical stuff in this chapter that is probably wrong. Please direct your attention away from the incorrect portions and focus instead on the hurt/comfort.

Green eyes fluttered open, squinting as they were blinded by the bright lights of the hospital room. 

“Danny? Can you hear me?”

A hand smoothed his hair back, and he leaned into it with a pained whimper. “Daa?” 

“That’s right,” his father’s soothing voice rumbled near him. “It’s Dad, luv. You’re alright. You’re safe.”

He frowned; there was something on his face, covering his nose and mouth, and he tried to reach up to move it. 

His hand was gently pushed down. “It’s an oxygen mask, son. You need it, so let it be.”

He turned towards his father’s voice and blinked, trying to focus, but he didn’t have his glasses on. “Dad?” he tried again. He hated the way his voice wavered and cracked, feeling rough and scratchy in his dry throat.

His father’s face swam into view. “I’m here. Do you remember what happened, Danny?”

He scrunched his eyes shut, trying to clear the fogginess in his head. “Shot. I was shot?” he queried. 

Then he gasped and tried to sit up, but ended up only sending his lungs into painful coughing. Lightning shocks of fire shot through his shoulder and head. Tears streamed down his cheeks, pooling in his hair and ears. 

“H-have to-- have to finish,” he panted, wheezing, trying to get more air, but the mask-- the mask--

“Lie back. Lie back, now. It’s alright. Leave the mask alone, Danny. It’s oxygen. There’s nothing to finish, luv. You completed the mission.” The warm hand stroked his hair slowly, comforting him. 

“B-Bond,” he gasped, something in his hazy mind insisting that he wasn’t done yet. Not yet.

A different voice spoke up. “Q,” it said. Bond? Was that Bond?

“Q, it’s Bond. You finished the hack. You stopped Nine Eyes. Everything is fine.” 

He blinked up at the blurry figure leaning over him, holding his other hand-- Oh, when did that happen? It wasn’t like Bond to be so affectionate.

The figure that looked like a fuzzy version of James Bond saw him looking perplexedly at their joined hands and gave an extra squeeze before withdrawing his. He missed it immediately. “Mission complete, Q.”

He squinted up at the agent. “Still in one piece?”

“You’re the one in the hospital bed, Q,” the deep voice said reprovingly. “Ah, but if you mean the equipment, the watch is no longer with us, I’m afraid. The _alarm_ went off, if you know what I mean.”

“Wha’?”

Bond chuckled. “Never mind. I’ll tell you later, when you’re not drugged up to the gills and running a fever.”

“Eve alrigh’? Tanner an’ M?” It was all a bit blurry, but he seemed to remember seeing their terrified faces fading in and out of his vision. 

“Everyone is fine. You’re the only one in hospital.”

He grunted softly. “Where’s m’ c’mputer? Need...”

Bond snorted. “You have a real problem, Q. You nearly died. In fact, you flatlined three times. Do you understand that? Your heart stopped three times. You’re not going back to work anytime soon.”

It took a long moment to sink in. The words sounded distorted, as though he was swimming in a body of water.

“I died?”

“Yes, Q.” A rough hand squeezed his wrist softly, cool against his hot skin. “You died.” Bond’s voice was soft and more gentle than he had ever heard it. 

He frowned. His laboring breaths sounded loud in the quiet room, the wheezing quality of it amplified by the mask. 

He turned to his father. “‘M sorry, Dad.”

The heavy hand tangled in his hair smoothed it back again. “For what?”

“Worrying you.”

His father’s soft sigh sounded weary. “I always worry about you, son. All the time.”

“‘M sorry.”

His father sighed, and he felt a soft kiss on his temple. “Rest, Danny. I love you.”

“L’ve y’ too.”

. . . . .

The next time Q woke, the world wasn’t spinning quite as much. 

“Danny? Are you with us this time?”

He blinked and his brain recognized the unfocused blob above him as his father. 

“Dad?”

Drake’s face creased into a relieved smile. “That’s right. You’re in hospital. Do you remember what happened?”

He blinked and-- “Yes, I remember.” Q frowned at the muffled quality of his voice and reached up for the mask again. 

“Don’t touch that,” his dad said gently, catching his hand and wrapping it in his. “You need the oxygen. They’re watching you for pneumonia. Your breathing isn’t what it should be; oxygen levels are too low, and you’re running a fever.”

“Hrmmh,” Q grumbled, closing his eyes. He had always been prone to chest infections, and it seemed like his immune system had finally had enough after the stress of the last few weeks with the MI5/MI6 merger -- or maybe it was the stress of the last three years in his new position. 

He was finding it much more difficult than usual to breathe. “Suppose that explains the--” he had to take a wheezing breath here -- “pachyderm on my chest.” 

Someone on his other side cleared his throat. Bond, who looked at him with crossed arms and a flat expression. “That might also be explained by the number of times they had to restart your heart.” 

Q glared at the agent. “I suppose...you’re going to keep...harping on that...despite the number...of times you’ve...been reported dead...yourself, 007,” he snapped as best he could despite the fact that he really couldn’t breathe at all. 

The effect of his effort was ruined by the long fit of violent coughing that erupted from his chest at that point, rendering him completely breathless. 

This prompted a flurry of activity in the form of doctors and nurses, who had been summoned by the frantic beeping of the machines.

When he finished blinking the dark spots and dizziness away, he was confronted by the two men, both wearing expressions somewhere between unimpressed and concerned. 

“Cotton wool,” Bond said decisively. “We’re wrapping you up in cotton wool and locking you in the basement from now on. You’re never leaving Q-Branch ever again.”

Drake snorted. “Good luck with that,” he said, leaning over to smooth Q’s hair back from his sweaty forehead. “You’ve never seen an escape artist like this one.”

Q didn’t feel up to talking, so he only glared at his father, knowing that tales of his childhood shenanigans were forthcoming. It was his father’s favorite hobby.

He and Bond didn’t have long to wait. 

Drake settled back into his chair by the bed and picked up Q’s hand again, his thumb absentmindedly stroking small circles on the back of it. “He kept climbing out of his crib as a baby. I had no idea how he did it. I was afraid he’d fall and hurt himself, but it was no use trying to stop him, determined little bugger. After weeks of him doing it every time I left the room, I decided that I didn’t really need to keep him _in_ the crib, as long as the landing was soft.”

Bond raised his eyebrow at Q. “Started the cloak-and-dagger business young, did you?”

Q rolled his eyes at him, then looked at his father. Something must have passed between them because Drake bent to kiss his son’s forehead. 

“No cotton wool, but I do have a request, however.” He looked tenderly at the younger man. “Please be more careful, and please take better care of yourself. You are not expendable. You’re the brain of MI6, and they can’t spare you. But not only that, you’re my only child, and I really cannot do without you.”

_‘I_ will not _do without you’_ went unsaid. 

Q looked at him for a long time, his brows furrowed and his throat working as though he was contemplating speaking again. 

Finally, he pulled his hand free of his fathers’, and placed it on top of them. Then, he tapped his fingers with a determined expression.

Bond realized that it was Morse code at the same time Drake did. 

N-O O-N-E I-S E-X-P-E-N-D-A-B-L-E

Q stared directly at Bond, then repeated: N-O O-N-E 

Bond inclined his head. Message received. 

Q then turned his gaze back to his father. 

I-L-L B-E C-A-R-E-F-U-L I P-R-O-M-I-S-E

Drake exhaled softly. “Thank you. Now,” his smile deepened, “go to sleep. You need your rest.”

Q gave his father one more fond look, then fell asleep with a content sigh. 

. . . . .

The next few days were difficult. 

Q did indeed contract pneumonia, as predicted. He had been put on a ventilator during his surgery to assist with his breathing, but it had been removed afterwards to reduce the risk of ventilator-related pneumonia. However, he had to be put back on it when breathing became too difficult and his lips and fingernails began turning blue. 

Hours, days passed in a fevered blur of breathlessness and pain. Rough fingers carding his hair and low, worried murmurs accompanied the choking, suffocating delirium.

Fuzzy, unfocused faces passed in his vision like vague, watery images. His father, Bond, Eve. Tanner, and even M floated hazily in his unfocused dream. Strangers’ faces, too, wearing white coats and blue scrubs. 

And the pain. 

Tightness in his chest. 

Aching fire in his shoulder ripping across his back and shooting up the tendons in his neck to his throbbing head.

_Pain._

He turned his tear-wet face into the calloused palm cupping his cheek. Rough fingers tangled with his on the sweat-soaked sheets of the bed.

Darkness claimed his mind. 

And he sank, deep, deep into the dark depths of death-sleep. 

. . . . .


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q finally wakes up for good. Family bantering. Also, a description of a domesticated _Agentus secretis._

Q clawed himself up into consciousness from the deep, cloying darkness. 

Small and slight he may be, but he had always been a fighter. 

He recovered. Slowly, but surely, he healed. The ventilator was put aside and the oxygen mask returned, and then it too was eventually put away. The breaths came easier and he was soon sitting up and talking, if somewhat breathlessly, rather than tapping out messages in Morse code. 

“Now, I stopped by your house and checked on the grandchildren,” his father was saying. 

Q groaned. He was being kept prisoner in his hospital bed by two highly-trained assassins, and he was suffering.  _ Suffering. _

“Please,” he begged, “please  _ do not _ call them that. They’re cats, not grandchildren.”

Bond, who for some unfathomable reason was still haunting his hospital room like a particularly solid and annoying ghost, snorted. 

Drake leveled Q a  _ Look  _ to rival one of his own. “Well, I’m not likely to get any human grandchildren out of you any time soon, am I? I’m still waiting for a son-in-law. If I have to console myself with the furry sort of babies, then I’ll damn well call them my grandchildren if I like.”

Q glared at his father. “You don’t even want grandchildren. Why are you embarrassing me in front of him?” he whined, twitching his foot in Bond’s direction with a disgruntled pout. “I have to  _ work  _ with him!”

Bond laughed in earnest this time. “I would think that’s obvious. And you call yourself a genius.” He paused for effect, then gave him a trademark smouldering look. “If you do find yourself in need of a wingman, I would be glad to assist in the hunt once you’ve recovered.”

Q pouted. He was well aware  _ (thank you very much, Bond)  _ that his father was only teasing him because it was a parent thing to do, but he didn’t need it pointed out by a smug colleague. 

“You’d stand out like a sore thumb in the gay scene, Bond,” he sniffed, arms crossed, “Not being even remotely gay yourself.”

“No?” Drake said thoughtfully, giving Bond a once-over while the current 007 smiled in a self-satisfied manner. “I’d had him pegged as bi.”

Q looked at them both suspiciously. “I’ve seen his files. And his mission reports. All women.”

The two spies traded looks that plainly said,  _ ‘Aww, isn’t he adorable?’  _ Evidently, Q needed to recalibrate his gaydar.

Q sighed and resisted burying his face in his palms. Instead, he reached his good arm towards his father and made a grabby gesture with his hand. “Pictures. Gimme.”

He got a raised eyebrow in return. “Of what? I had no idea you were interested in those sorts of pictures. Why you think I’d have any--”

“Cats,” Q growled out. “I know you took pictures of your furry grandchildren.”

Drake smirked and dug his phone out of his pocket to pass to Q. “I did you one better. I made several recordings.”

Q was already playing the first video with a bright smile on his face, laughing quietly as the cats frolicked at his father’s feet.

Bond leaned over to watch over Q’s shoulder. “Ada was talkative today,” he observed. The female cat was meowing loudly and with conviction. “She usually isn’t, is she?”

He had met Q’s cats numerous times on his many uninvited visits to Q’s house over the years. Q had two cats: a beautiful white Persian named Ada Lovelace, and a grey striped tom named Alan Turing. Ada was affectionate, with a great love of leaving long white hairs all over Bond’s tailored suits. Turing was much shyer, and had hidden himself away the first few times Bond had visited. 

“She misses him,” Drake said, busying himself at the table in the corner of the room. “They both do.”

Q sighed. “I see them little enough with this job,” he said, swiping to the next video. “Really, it’s a good thing their food and water are automated, and their litter box is self-emptying. They’d starve to death otherwise, poor darlings. I miss them too.”

Bond watched with him. It was...interesting to see and hear the legendary Cold War spy Damien Drake cooing at a pair of cats that curled around and around his legs. Of course, he had already seen the softer, more human side of the man in the past couple of weeks since he had come to sit vigil by Q’s bedside, but really. Kissy sounds?

“Dad?” Q said presently, “Did you do my laundry?” He had paused the video and was scrutinizing the screen with a scowl on his face. “You did, didn’t you?”

Drake had pulled a pair of thick woolen socks out of the large box on the table. “The basket was full,” he said, sitting at the end of the bed and flipping the covers over to reveal skinny feet encased in thin white hospital-issued socks. He began replacing the cheap cotton socks with the warmer hand-knit ones, while Q tried to squirm out of his grasp.

_ “Dad.” _

“Hold still,” Drake muttered, gripping a bony ankle. _ “Worse than when you were a toddler, I swear,”  _ he said under his breath.

“Dad,” Q said again, glaring ineffectually at his father. Then he went limp and gave in. “You vacuumed, didn’t you?”

“And dusted. I cleaned out your refrigerator, too. The milk was about to walk off under its own power.”

“And you made me soup.” 

Drake had returned from his trip to Q’s house with a large box in his arms. One of the things in the box had been a crockpot filled with homemade chicken soup that he immediately plugged in to keep warm. The nurses had, of course, protested against it, but Drake had turned the full force of his considerable charm and persuasion on them  _ (‘such a picky eater, especially when he’s feeling poorly’ ‘won’t eat anything else’) _ and had been allowed to keep it in the room. He had also smoothly sweet-talked them into allowing him to use the staff refrigerator to store leftovers. 

Bond had watched with amusement. Retired the man might be, but rusty he was not. 

“You like my soup,” Drake said, smoothing the covers and the thick crocheted afghan over the now warmly-socked feet. 

Q sighed again as deeply as he could manage and fell back against his fluffed-up pillows. God save him from mother-henning fathers determined to coddle him to death. 

“Bond,” he said conversationally, “this is what happens when you domesticate a wild  _ Agentus secretis.”  _

Bond shrugged. “Doesn’t seem too bad. It’s good to be neat, and cooking is a valuable skill.” 

“Bond,” Q said more urgently in a voice that said, _ ‘no, you don’t understand.’  _ “He knits. And the neighborhood ladies taught him how to crochet too. My childhood home is filled with doilies and embroidered pillows, Bond.” 

While Bond was busy processing that revelation, Drake said calmly, “It’s nice to have a hobby that’s creative rather than destructive after a life of absolute chaos. Besides, you don’t seem to mind wearing the jumpers and the socks I make you.” 

Bond blinked, looking at where Q’s feet made two lumps under the colorful wooly blanket. Handmade socks. Handmade blanket. He thought about Q’s closet full of colorful jumpers and cardigans. All handmade?

Q pursed his lips. “...They’re warm and comfortable.” 

“Is retirement really that boring?” Bond asked, suddenly filled with very real horror at the prospect that loomed over him on the near horizon.

Drake chuckled. “I only started knitting after this one moved out for uni. No more randomly exploding colanders and sudden power outages accompanied by mysterious international incidents in the news. At least, not in my house. Anything that happened at uni was another matter entirely. After a rough start, they only called me about once a week to complain.” 

“Exploding colanders?”

Q blushed. “I was trying to-- Never mind.” 

Bond was beginning to get an inkling that the two members of the Drake family were not quite...sane.  _ “Exploding colanders?  _ Why were you blowing up kitchenware?” He had thought that the toaster bomb Drake had mentioned was a joke, but perhaps it was a literal bomb made by a two-year-old.

“I was seven. Give me a break.” Q was trying to look annoyed, and he would have fooled a civilian, but to the well-trained eye, all he managed was embarrassed. 

“When I was seven,” Bond said slowly, “I was playing football and scraping my knees falling out of trees. I wasn’t blowing things up. The closest I ever got was hunting, and that was supervised.”

Drake shrugged. “It’s the genius version of playing with matches. Or so I was told at the time.”

“By whom?” Bond was beginning to be a little disturbed. He knew that Q was dangerous, but really.  _ Exploding colanders and international incidents? _

“His proud godfather, who always encouraged him in his endeavors to create mass havoc on my life.” Drake looked absolutely exasperated, but the others both knew that the annoyance was mostly affectionate. 

Q’s smile was filled with fond nostalgia. “Uncle Geoffrey used to say that it was payback for when you worked with him. You never brought equipment back in one piece.” He gave Bond a pointed look. _ ‘Just like you,’ _ the raised eyebrow accused silently.

“Geoffrey? Not Major Geoffrey Boothroyd? One of the old Qs?” Bond was beginning to put things together, but at the same time, it was as though he had fallen down the metaphorical rabbithole. 

“Yes,  _ my  _ Q. The one before Monty.” Drake sighed. “Poor old Monty. He didn’t deserve to go out that way. Good man. Bit absentminded, but a good chap.”

Dr. Montgomery had been nice enough, as far as Bond was concerned, but he wasn’t really what the double-ohs needed. Of course, they hadn’t known this until Danny Drake, then known as R, had taken over the quartermaster position after the explosion at MI6 that had killed Monty in 2012. The older man had been a highly capable, very gifted scientist and researcher, but he had only been a barely competent administrator and manager. 

According to the MI6 rumor mill, he hadn’t even wanted the quartermaster job, and had drawn the short straw (apparently literally, since another rumor said that they had used a random computer generator to draw lots among the senior members of Q-Branch) when Major Boothroyd had decided to retire back in 1999. 

(According to a further, more preposterous rumor, the first candidate that Boothroyd had suggested as his replacement had been a nine-year-old child prodigy...Wait a minute...Q -- Bond’s Q -- would have been nine in 1999.)

Bond looked at Q with an expression on his face that said that he was beyond being surprised. “Your godfather was a Q. Of course your bloody godfather was a quartermaster. Your father was a double-oh, your godfather was a Q. Was your mother Mata Hari? Was M your fairy godmother? Christ!” 

He sat heavily in his chair (well, at least as loudly as his training would allow) and crossed his arms. He wasn’t being petulant. He wasn’t. His feelings were completely justified. 

Father and son looked at him with very similar amused expressions. In that moment, despite the vast differences in their build and general appearance, they looked terrifyingly alike. 

“Mata Hari?” Drake drawled, his eyebrows raised. “Just how old do you think I am, young man?”

Bond hadn’t felt embarrassed in quite some time, nor had he been called a ‘young man’ since...well, M.  _ His _ M (not that Mallory wasn’t also beginning to become his M, but  _ she _ would always have a special place in his cold, black heart).

Q looked positively gleeful, and his eyes glittered with unsuppressed mirth. Bond let him have it. He had been through a lot in the last couple of weeks, after all. 

Bond grinned and leaned back in the chair. He crossed one leg over the other in a slow, calculated movement. “Oh, but hasn’t your son told you how very ancient I am? He never misses an opportunity to rib me about my extremely advanced age.”

Anyone without the training of a double-oh (or a former double-oh) would have missed the ‘ _ oh shit’ _ expression that flickered across Q’s face, but no one could have missed the way he tried to cover it up.

“Anyway,” Q said with a falsely blasé shrug, “Dad used to do a lot of woodworking when I was growing up. Still does, between the knitting. He made most of the furniture at my house. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

Bond thought about the sturdy wooden tables and chairs at Q’s, and was appropriately impressed, but decided to take the opportunity to tease Q instead of letting him get away with changing the subject...by changing the subject. 

“Q,” he said, and Q began to glare at him without even knowing what he was going to say. “You must have been trained to lie from birth. Why are you so awful at it?”

The younger man shot him a deadly look. “Shut up, Bond. You try living with a human lie detector all your life and see where that gets you.”

“Speaking of human lie detectors,” Drake said, holding out his hand, “my phone, please? Don’t think I didn’t see you hiding it under the covers.”

Q groaned. He had been informed that he was on full medical leave until the doctors cleared him to work.  _ Full  _ medical leave, meaning that M had prohibited him from working  _ at all. _ This meant, of course, no electronics with internet capabilities.

He was going to go insane by the time his leave was over. 

He handed the phone over to his father with a pitiful look, but all he got was another raised eyebrow. 

“And the other one.”

Q sighed and handed over Bond’s phone, which he had taken while the agent was busy watching cat videos with him. 

At least he had the great pleasure of seeing Bond do a double take at his pickpocketing skills. 

“And the other one.”

Bond didn't even know, nor did he want to know, where that last one had come from. 

_ “Daaaad,” _ Q whined, nearly crying with frustration.

“I brought Scrabble,” Drake said calmly, nodding at the box on the table. 

It seemed that Bond was about to be introduced to the Scrabble king of MI6.

. . . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mata Hari: It’s not important at all to this fic, but just a fun allusion. It’s a reference to the 1967 Casino Royale, which is basically a spoof of James Bond movies. In the film, Mata Bond is James Bond’s daughter with Mata Hari. I can’t remember if I actually saw it; I think I did as a kid, but it must have been so bad that I blocked out most of it. 
> 
> I’m giving the name ‘Monty’ to John Cleese’s Q, who was called R (the appointed successor to Desmond Llewellyn’s long-reigning Q) in _The World Is Not Enough,_ and had apparently been promoted to Q by _Die Another Day._ ‘Monty’ is from Monty Python, of which Cleese is a member. Monty is generally a nickname for Montgomery, so that’s what I decided his real name is. He strikes me as more of a researcher type than a military type, so it’s Dr. instead of Major, as it is for Major Boothroyd, which is the canon name for Llewellyn!Q.
> 
> Also: The sexuality of the characters is not a main plot point in my story. There will be no romantic relationships in this fic, aside from a bit of flirting (they’re double-ohs, so of course they flirt).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q's strays come home.

The agents who’d gone out to clean up the mess that the dismantling of SPECTRE had caused were starting to trickle back, one by one. 

Q’s silent alarm system went off:  _ Attic window _

Drake stood smoothly, putting his book down on the coffee table, along with his reading glasses. He reached into a biometrically-locked drawer for a gun. “I’ll go check it out.”

“Probably one of my agents,” Q muttered, tapping away on his laptop. “Don’t shoot first.”

After a while, he heard two sets of nearly-silent footsteps coming down the stairs. 

“It’s one of your strays,” his father said loudly. He sounded amused. 

‘Which one?” he called back, though he knew who it likely was. 004 was due back soon.

“This one,” Scarlett Papava said in a sing-song voice, sashaying into the room and sliding onto the sofa beside him. “Feeling better, Q, sweetheart? I heard you caught pneumonia,” she said disapprovingly. 

She grabbed his head gently in her strong hands and poked at the half-healed wound on his temple, then turned her attention to his shoulder, pulling down the collar of his shirt to examine the row of stitches underneath. 

Q endured the (wo)manhandling with a resigned sigh. He wasn’t going to stop an overprotective double-oh agent from making sure that he was alright. “I’m fine, 004,” he protested. “I’m feeling much better now.”

Scarlett sat back to examine his face closely with unblinking chocolate eyes. 

Q met her gaze. “Did you bring back my equipment?” he asked lightly, as soon as he’d confirmed in his turn that his agent was in one piece and was not hiding any injuries. 

Scarlett snorted in an unladylike manner. “Of course I did. Who do you take me for? 007? _ Alec?”  _ Her voice conveyed her disgust at the very thought. 

Q laughed. “Perish the thought. They’d look ridiculous in that outfit, Scarlett, whereas you look simply lovely. Such a pity I’m gay.”

They giggled with their heads tipped together as though conspiring. 

Drake shook his head, smiling, as he mixed a cocktail at the drinks table in the corner that Q kept well-stocked for when his agents decided to drop in uninvited. The first time he had seen it, he had been slightly concerned that his son had developed an alcohol habit, but a second look had convinced him of its true purpose. Danny had always had a way with strays, and it seemed that his agents had adopted him unconditionally. 

“Miss Scarlett,” he said as he held the cocktail glass out to her. “Vodka martini.  _ Dirty.” _ The last word was said in a low voice, heavy with playful meaning.

She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him as she took it. “How did you know, Colonel Drake?” she purred over her first sip. “Did Q tell you?”

Drake winked at her with a charming smile. “I have a gift.”

“Oh god,” Q said, hiding his face in a throw pillow. “Please don’t. Not in my house, where I can hear you!”

His father grinned broadly and unrepentantly. “Please don’t what? We didn’t do anything.” He sat down on the other side of Q and opened his book to the marked page. “Did we, Scarlett?”

“No, not at all,” Scarlett said, mischief sparkling in her eyes. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, QT pie,” she practically cooed, knowing how much he disliked that nickname. 

“I hate you both” was his muffled response, and the other two laughed like old friends. 

Presently, Q emerged from behind his cushion and pulled his computer back into his lap. He had to type with one hand, since the other arm was still encased in the ever-present sling. 

Scarlett peeked over his shoulder. “Are you working? I thought M prohibited you from doing anything work-related.”

“He was getting restless,” Drake commented, taking a sip of his tea. “Trust me, any reprimand M can dish out is much better than having to deal with a bored genius.”

Q looked up from his work to glare at his father. “I’m not that bad,  _ Father.” _

Drake peered at him over the rim of his reading glasses. “And what happened the last time you got really bored, young man?”

Q flushed to the tips of his ears. “Oh. Right.”

“What happened?” Scarlett asked, curiosity piqued. 

“Stock market crash in 2008,” Drake said. “Before that, it was the LoveBug self-replicating spam virus in 2000. He was ten. We try not to let things get away from us anymore, do we, son?”

Q squirmed in his seat. 

Scarlett’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “He caused those?”

“I have learned over the past quarter century to take immediate action when the words ‘But I’m  _ bored, _ Dad’ are uttered.”

Scarlett laughed. 

. . . . .

It seemed that Q’s father was watching his son very carefully, for as soon as Q’s eyelids started to droop, Drake said quietly, “Time to go to bed, Danny.”

“Mm,” Q grunted, tapping faster than ever in an attempt to get as much done as possible before…

“Now. That was the deal.”

Q deflated. 

Scarlett watched in awe as His Stroppy Highness, Overlord of Q-Branch, Supreme Dictator over the Double-Oh Division reluctantly closed his beloved laptop with a despondent little sigh and got up, stretching a little. He said good night and shuffled upstairs to bed. 

Scarlett stared after him. “Wow,” she said. She turned to the retired agent. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

Drake smirked. “It’s called parenting.”

. . . . .

The next to drop by was Alec Trevelyan. 

“006,” Q scolded, “Was that you in Moscow?”

There had been a...small...explosion in a rather major building in the city. 

“No,” Alec said, lounging on the other end of the sofa, like the overgrown cat he was, “That was Bond.”

Bond had finally been coerced into leaving Q’s side and taking a mission. It had taken a lengthy and scalding  _ Talk _ with many  _ Words _ on the quartermaster’s part for Bond to give up on his soul-sucking guilt and subtly hangdog hovering. 

(The words “For pity’s sake, I ran the statistics on my chances of getting killed before you even got back to London, 007! It was my choice get involved!” might have been uttered.)

Q rolled his eyes. Of course. His second guess. Both Bond and Alec were known for their destructive tendencies, with the latter being more of a pyromaniac than the other. 

“I was in Kiev.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “Did you actually manage not to set anything on fire?” There hadn’t been any reports of explosions or large fires in Kiev.

Alec shrugged. “Do evil henchmen count?”

While Q sighed and rolled his eyes again (of course 006 had set  _ people  _ on fire), Drake handed Alec a glass.

“Thank you, sir,” Alec said, sniffing approvingly at the vodka. 

Q looked at him oddly. 

“What?”

“It’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“You,” Q said, cocking his head. “Being respectful and meaning it.” 

It was true; there was always a hint of irreverence in 006’s dealings with higher-ups, something just a shade insolent and flippant, but not enough to earn a reprimand. The people 006 (and most of the other double-ohs, for that matter) had real respect for were few and far between. The old M had been one of them. Q was another. It seemed that Q’s father had made it into the exclusive club. 

Alec grinned like a tiger showing sharp teeth. “He raised you,” he said, tilting his glass in Drake’s direction, “That alone deserves my respect.” He tossed the drink off in one gulp.

Q wrinkled his nose. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“It’s both.”

Q shoved a colorfully-socked foot against Alec’s thigh, smiling broadly. “Prat.”

Alec grinned back at him, “Swotty little tosser.” He reached over and threw his arm  _ (gently) _ over the thin shoulders, pulling the younger man closer. 

“You’re really alright?” he asked quietly. 

The two of them had always had a special bond. 006 had been present at the young polymath’s induction to MI6, but he had also once saved his life -- a favor Q had repaid again and again from his computer station in Q-Branch even before he became quartermaster. Alec had been his first friend at MI6, and had watched his evolution from a brilliant, somewhat naive boy to an equally brilliant and capable young man. 

Q relaxed into him, breathing in the smell of smoke, alcohol, and leather that was uniquely Alec. “Yes,” he nodded, “I’m alright.” 

He held still as he endured the slightly invasive check Alec made on his temple and shoulder, poking gentle fingers around the tender edges of the wounds. “I’m alright, Alec,” he repeated.

“Okay, kid,” Alec finally sighed into the mop of dark hair, his arm still around Q. It had shaken him, finding out that Q, his young friend, had been shot and had nearly died. He didn't form attachments easily, but he cherished those that were strong enough to survive him. 

The protective fire had flared up in his breast, making him lash out at James, but the flames had been snuffed out, leaving behind a cold, dull ache, an icy lake of worry.

Q had been a constant at MI6 for a long time, even before, when he had been a lowly tech. He had been there to see Alec off on nearly every mission, and he had nearly always been there when the agent returned. It hadn’t been the same, being sent off on a new mission by the new R instead of the snarky young man with the stern expression and amused eyes. 

It seemed that the other agents had felt the same way, judging from the way they had interrogated the poor woman into revealing where Q was and what had happened that fateful night after the Nine Eyes debacle. It seemed also that no one had ratted them out to Q, since they had yet to receive the scathing tongue-lashing they were sure to get for severely traumatizing his second-in-command. 

Q huffed, but without fire. “Not a kid,” he reminded Alec, as he had done for years. He gave another sigh and snuggled into Alec sleepily, as he had often done before. He wasn’t this affectionate with all of the double-ohs, but Alec was special. They had seen each other at their most vulnerable, and hadn’t quite succeeded in pushing each other away, but rather the opposite. 

Alec pulled the warm blanket off of the back of the sofa and wrapped his friend in it. He was still too pale, and his breaths were still labored and uneven. Alec couldn’t bring himself to let go of him. The reassuring weight and warmth of the bony body in his arms settled something in his chest. 

“Sure,” he said quietly, “Not a kid.” He dropped a kiss on the sleepy mess of curls. “Time for a nap, little boy.”

“Piss off,” Q said around a yawn.

As Q dozed, Alec was aware that he was being watched by the other man in the room. 

Q’s father sat in the armchair, placidly reading his novel with wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose, and looking completely innocuous, as only the father of a bespectacled, becardiganned, spotty quartermaster could. 

“You’re the one who pulled him out of the plane crash,” Drake said presently.

Alec felt his heart beat a little faster as he remembered the fatal crash of a stolen private aircraft at the end of a mission gone wrong. It had resulted in the then-005’s death and a seriously-injured and extremely traumatized young Q-Branch tech. When they had tracked down the site of the crash hours too late, he had had to pry the dead agent’s corpse out of the kid’s tearful grip before he would allow himself to be examined. 

“Yes,” he said, not even a twitch in his face betraying his inner turmoil. 

Drake, however, had earned his reputation, and  _ knew. _

“Thank you,” he said solemnly. “You were gone before I had a chance to speak to you.”

Alec shrugged. “Had another mission.”

Drake looked at him over his wire rims. “You took the long way back to London instead of drugging him up and putting him on a plane.”

Actually, M (the old M) had ordered him to do just that, but he had disobeyed and had instead taken the boffin back to England via the much longer scenic route.

“I’m a bastard, but not a complete one,” Alec said, slightly flippantly. “He’d just survived a horrible plane crash. I wasn’t going to do that to him if I didn’t have to.” 

He faltered a little under the heavy gaze of the older man. “He’s…” He cleared his throat. “He’s my friend. Already was back then, too.”

Something in Drake’s expression softened. “He didn’t have many close friends before MI6. It’s like...they always sensed that there was something different or dangerous about him and didn’t quite want to get close enough. At MI6…”

“He was suddenly in a building full of people with dangerous auras a mile wide,” Alec finished, smiling, “and the most dangerous of them decided that they’d adopt him as a little brother figure, solely for the reason that he was perfectly at home with said dangerous people instead of on-edge around them. And the minions at Q-Branch all worship him, even the older generation. They call him Overlord, and I’m pretty sure they actually mean it. It’s not really the same as friendship with them, I think, but it’s complete acceptance, which was something he wasn’t used to before.”

“Precisely.”

Alec grinned back at Drake. “It’s the little interpersonal things; he’s never been very good at them, has he?”

Drake chuckled. “No, he hasn’t. Computers are easy, but people are hard.”

Alec, who had often heard Q complain about exactly that, laughed softly. “Exactly. And apparently, sociopaths are easier than normal people.”

“Not a sociopath,” muttered Q drowsily from Alec’s chest. 

“Not even a high-functioning one?” Alec smirked.

“I regret introducing you to that show,” Q mumbled before falling asleep again.

“Ingrate,” Alec threw back fondly, “I’m letting you drool on my shirt, kid.”

Q’s response was a quiet snore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “High-functioning sociopath” is a reference to BBC’s _Sherlock._ (Obviously.)
> 
> The stock market crash in 2008 and the LoveBug self-replicating spam virus in 2000 are actual things that happened.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas with secret agents, past and present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features a lot of OCs. You may recognize them either by name or by description. Explanations at the bottom. I really only borrowed them, so if you don’t recognize them at all, that’s okay too. 
> 
> Also, this story has seven chapters. Seven. As in 007. Purely accidental.

Q’s father was still living with Q when December rolled around. He had briefly gone back to his house in the sleepy little village to see to things there and to pick up his dog, Horatio, from a neighbor who had been watching him. 

Q didn’t mind  _ (much); _ he knew how much his father worried about him, and this time had been a particularly close shave. 

He was still on partial medical leave, the bout of pneumonia pushing his recovery from his shoulder wound much farther back than planned. 

M had finally relented and allowed him access to his work computer (not that he actually needed his  _ work  _ computer to get into the network, but the gesture was appreciated), but he was still prohibited from coming into the office because of the “delicate state of his lungs” (his doctor’s words, supported by the entire MI6 medical team [he had introduced an annoying but harmless virus into their system for that betrayal]). 

It seemed that being doused in so much of Q’s blood had made M rather overprotective of him. Eve and Tanner weren’t any better, though the latter at least tried to disguise his worry with a thin veneer of professionalism. 

Eve, on the other hand, was a bloody menace. 

She and the others had been forced to keep from visiting Q by the sheer volume of work in the days following the Nine Eyes-SPECTRE situation, but once things slowed down enough, she had more than made up for it. She was a constant visitor, almost rivaling Bond in time spent there, sweeping about the private hospital room, fluffing pillows and trying to spoon-feed him soup. 

Q had finally erupted with frustration. He couldn’t throw his father out of the room, but he would not suffer being  _ mothered _ by a colleague barely a decade older than him, thank you very much. 

“Alright, alright,” Moneypenny had said dryly, “I see you’re feeling better, Q.” Then she’d fluffed his pillows again and promised to bring more soup next time as she left. 

R’s visits were all completely virtual, thank goodness. They kept in touch via emails, instant messaging, and video calls, and what’s more, she didn’t  _ fuss _ . R, as a woman in the science and technology field, knew how it was to be  _ different,  _ so she didn’t treat him as a trembling orphaned kitten like so many people seemed to want to do. She was no-nonsense and knew that he knew his own limits, and that’s why he loved her so much. 

That wasn’t to say that she didn’t worry, because she did. They all did, down at Q-Branch. They were the minions to his overlord, after all. But fussing wasn’t something that came naturally to them, since most of them were as socially inept as Q (even more so in many cases). So they showed their concern and appreciation for him in their own non-aggressive ways, such as sending him bits of particularly beautiful pieces of code that they’d come across, or asking his advice on something that they really didn’t need much guidance on, just so they could see his responses and know that he was still alive and kicking. 

Q understood that, so he...well, he didn’t  _ coddle  _ them, but yes, he did treat them with a softer touch than he did the double-ohs, who broke into his home, one after another, and teamed up with his father against him in aggressively cosseting and mollycoddling him into insanity.

By mid-December, the excessive babying had let up enough that Q wasn’t pulling his hair out in frustration. 

A particularly cold night found the two Drakes in Q’s sitting room with the heat turned up as high as it would go. Q was at his computer, working on schematics for an updated model of 003’s Aston Martin. Drake was clicking away at a half-finished cardigan on a set of hand-carved knitting needles. It was to be Q’s Christmas present this year, and promised to be extra-warm.

“What are you thinking about?” Q asked, noticing the half-absorbed look on his father’s face. 

Drake counted stitches under his breath. “Christmas dinner.”

“Want to have it here this year?” Basically, it was a foregone conclusion that it would be at Q’s this year, but it was better to actually discuss things, wasn’t it?

“Exactly what I was thinking. How many of your agents will be in town for the holiday, do you think?”

Q shrugged. “On average, about half.”

“That’s five then,” Drake said thoughtfully, “Plus the two of us. And then the usual gang.” By this, he meant his old friends from his service days -- at least the few of whom had survived and didn’t have anywhere else to go for the holiday. “How about your Miss Moneypenny? And Tanner and M? R?”

Q leaned back to think, steepling his fingers and tapping his lips with them. “Tanner and M usually have their own family gatherings, but we can invite them as a courtesy. Eve might come, especially if we hint at who else will be here. It’s R’s turn to be on duty this year, so she can’t.”

Drake perused his mental to-do list. “I suppose there’ll be a skeleton crew in Q-Branch that day? Do you think they’d like biscuits?”

“Dad?”

“Hmm?” Drake said in between executing a particularly complicated stitch. 

“This is why your friends joke that you’ve gone domestic,” Q said dryly, returning to his work.

“I resent that remark.”

Q snorted. “I’m sure you do, Martha Stewart. Can we do chocolate biscuits?”

“Of course.”

Q gave his father an affectionate look and snuggled deeper into the crocheted blanket that he had cocooned himself in. 

He had moved out of his father’s house rather early in his life due to his accelerated education and a robust streak of independence, but he had missed long, cozy evenings sitting quietly with him like this. 

“Shortbread too?”

“Certainly. And I think we can spare a pie or two.”

“They’d love that.”

. . . . .

001, always early to any event, had predictably been the first guest to arrive. Q had promptly set him to work setting up and helping to prep the hors d'oeuvres. 

It was odd, seeing Edward Donne, an exact and ruthless killer, patiently laying out rows of crackers on a tray. In fact, it would be a very odd party indeed, with enough present and former secret agents in one place to make anyone nervous. Q was starting to regret his decision to let the party take place at his house. 

As he was sighing again for the fifth time and ignoring his father’s amused expression, the doorbell rang. Horatio, Drake’s golden retriever, was already on his way to the door, his yellow tail happily wagging up a storm.

“Donne,” Q called, his hands sticky with fruit juice, “can you get that, please? The face recognition program should tell you who it is. And don’t let Horatio get out.”

“Of course.”

Donne appeared at the door to the kitchen after a moment and cleared his throat. “The screen says it’s Victoria Winslow?” he said uncertainly, having recognized the name of a legendary retired MI6 agent.

Q’s face lit up. “Aunt Victoria!” he cried, wiping his hands and bustling out to answer the door himself. 

“Daniel, darling!” Victoria Winslow, formerly Agent 003, said warmly, handing him an armful of tastefully-wrapped packages and a cake box, which he deposited on the hall table in time to be enveloped in a deliciously perfumed embrace. “How are you, dear?”

Q settled comfortably into her arms with a contented sigh. “I’m alright, Aunt Victoria. How are you?”

She pulled back and cupped his cheek in her hand. “Oh, I’m just fine.” She moved aside a wayward curl from his temple to look at the healed graze. “Is this it, then?” she asked sternly, and her hands trailed to the buttons on his brand new cardigan to look at his other wound. 

Q squirmed out of her grip. “Aunt Tory! I’m fine! Really. That is completely unnecessary. My shoulder’s nearly back to normal.”

Victoria tsked, but let him get away with his lie. “Well, alright. Now let me kiss you, darling.”

Q dutifully presented his cheek for a light peck. 

Horatio barked and pranced in place, demanding his share of affection from Victoria. 

“Have you been a good boy, Horatio? Have you been a good boy?”

Horatio yipped an affirmative response. He had indeed been a very good boy. 

“Dame Victoria!” Drake declared as he came out into the hall. He flourished his arms in a dramatic gesture, intercepting Victoria in a twirl as she glided towards him as though dressed in a floor-length ballgown instead of the sensible cocktail dress and coat she was wearing. 

“Damien!”

Drake tipped her back into a deep dip. “Ravishing as ever, Victoria.”

She smiled and kissed him lightly on the lips when he let her up again. “And you are just as charming, you old flirt.”

Q watched them with an affectionate expression and rolled his eyes in a way that clearly said,  _ ‘Parents.’ _

“Now,” Victoria said, as Drake helped her out of her coat and handed it to Q, who hung it up. “Will someone with manners please introduce me to this handsome young man?”

“Edward Donne, 001,” Q said. “Victoria Winslow, my aunt through association, not blood.”

Donne kissed her hand. “Charmed,” he said flirtatiously. 

Q sighed. “Ed? No.”

The agent cocked his eyebrow at him. “No?” he asked, as though uncomprehending, or unwilling to comprehend what Q meant. Q was betting on the latter.

Q put his hands on his hips. “No,” he said firmly.

Victoria smiled and put her arm in Donne's. “Find me a drink, won’t you, Mr. Donne?” she drawled. “I am parched.”

Q’s sigh got even more exasperated. “Aunt Victoria, can you please at least try not to break him?”

Donne laughed. “Break me? Really, Q. It’s only a drink.”

As the younger agent led the retired one to the sitting room to get her the aforementioned drink, father and son looked after them with matching expressions. 

“She’s going to eat him alive,” Q said, resigned. 

“Well, you did warn him,” Damien shrugged. “He’s a grown man.”

“He’s  _ my  _ agent. He’s  _ my  _ responsibility.”

“She’s mellowed a bit with age.”

Q fixed his father with an incredulous look. “Has she?” 

“No, not really.” Damien patted his son’s good shoulder. “Come on, Danny. Dinner’s not going to cook itself. And bring the cake.”

. . . . .

The guests trickled in, and the party was soon in full swing. 

Eve and Scarlett clustered around Victoria, eyes shining with adoration at actually meeting the legendary female spy.

Edward Donne sat on the sofa, looking dazed. Q brought him a glass of champagne and refrained from saying,  _ “I told you so.”  _

Donne took the glass blindly and gulped it down. “Now that is some woman,” he said hoarsely when he could speak.

Stuart Thomas, who had served as 005 in the eighties and early nighties until a tumor in his eye had forced him to retire, chuckled as he sat down next to Edward. “Had the Victoria treatment, did you?”

“I warned him,” Q muttered into his own glass. He eyed his ‘Uncle Stuart’ crossly. “Why is it that double-ohs never listen?”

Stuart, ruggedly silver-haired and well-tanned from spending his retirement sailing the world on his boat like the dashing one-eyed pirate he was, snorted. “We’re genetically wired not to listen to good advice when it comes to dangerous women. Take the two of them,” he said, nodding at Bond and Alec, who were circling Victoria Winslow like two young lions stalking the matriarch of the pride. “Don’t even bother warning them. They know she’s a bad idea, and yet…”

The three of them watched Victoria following the two agents with a sideways slant of their eyes and a quirk of her rouged lips. Then, she caught her nephew’s pleading look (Q turned up the pitiful puppy-eyed expression up a notch), then sent her admirers off to sulk in the corner with only a few murmured words. 

The two younger women exchanged excited glances.  _ Such  _ a learning opportunity.

Stuart looked impressed. “They got off easy,” he mused. “You know, Danny, you’re the only person in the world she’d do that for.”

“Q,” Edward said sardonically, “I’m beginning to realize that you are the most dangerous man in Europe, and possibly the world.”

Stuart sent the younger agent a probing look. “Took you a while, didn’t it? How long have you known him?”

“Four years,” Edward said, a little uncomfortable at the fact that it was very much not a joke with this man. On second thought, it had taken him a bit too long to realize that Q was extremely dangerous. “How long have you known him?”

Stuart chuckled and took a sip from his glass, which smelled powerfully of strong alcohol. “All his life. First met him a week before his first birthday. Little bugger recited the Fibonacci sequence at me. That’s when I realized that the world as we knew it was doomed if we let him go evil.”

Q tilted his chin up, looking prim and proper, but also extremely pleased with himself. “How do you know that I haven’t gone evil? Maybe I’m just biding my time?”

Stuart snorted incredulously, attracting the attention of yet another of Damien Drake’s old friends. “Pfft. Do you think your dad wouldn’t know if you did?”

Q’s green eyes danced with delight. “Touché.”

Ivar Bryce, the only American in a room full of Brits, sat down in a nearby armchair, maneuvering extremely gracefully for a man with two prosthetic legs. He had had a run-in with some sharks back in his DEA days, before which he had been a CIA agent who had often worked with Drake. After the DEA, he had turned his skills to being a private investigator, but he was now happily retired. 

“Are we talking about Danny here taking over the world?” Ivar questioned with a toothy grin. “Because if we are, hypothetically speaking, he could do it.” Horatio, came over with his tail wagging and butted his nose against a false leg, begging for attention, which he got in spades. 

Q sighed with feigned irritation. “Just because I  _ could  _ doesn’t mean I  _ would _ . It would be far too much work to maintain, anyway.”

Ivar chortled. “And you couldn’t make up some program to take care of all that for you? Some automated thing with your computers?”

Q tilted his head. “I  _ could… _ ”

“Oh god,” Stuart groaned, “Don’t put ideas in his head, Ivar.”

Q shook his head decisively. “No,” he said with finality. “No, one couldn’t do it with any sort of efficiency. People are far too unpredictable, statistically speaking. People are, sadly, necessary to manage people, and it would be too much work to manage ruling over the whole world. And really, for what reason? I don’t need any more power; I’ve already got that at my fingertips.”

“Good God,” Caleb Turner, the current 009, said, leaning over the back of the couch. “Why are you talking about power and ruling the world, Q? Are we organizing a takeover?”

“No,” Edward said lazily, “It’s too much work for too little reason. He  _ could  _ do it, though.”

“I never said he couldn’t,” Caleb retorted. “Well, anyway, Q,” he said, patting Q’s good shoulder. “Double-oh section is behind you, if you ever do decide to do it. With us and your tech minions, we could do it overnight.”

“No,” Q protested, “Really, 009, it was just a joke. I’m not actually--”

“Hey Scarlett,” Edward said over him, grinning, “Q’s taking over the world. You in?”

“For our darling Q? All the way,” Scarlett called back.

“Why weren’t we invited?” Alec asked, towing an equally offended Bond along with him.

“Seriously, all of you,” Q said, standing up and putting his hands on his hips with a stern expression. “I am  _ not  _ taking over the world. I am quite finished with this joke now.”

The double-ohs all looked at each other with expressions that said that they would humor their quartermaster...this time. 

“Yes, of course, Q,” Eve soothed, perching herself on the arm of the sofa next to the exasperated boffin.  _ “Of course _ it’s a joke.”

“They call me their overlord, and yet they never listen,” Q moaned to her, flopping back onto the sofa. 

“Supreme Dictator,” Caleb corrected. “Q-Branch calls you their overlord. You’re our supreme dictator.”

Q looked at him with an expression that said that he would very much like to eviscerate him with a spoon. 

It was into this lull in the conversation that the sound of the doorbell rang out. Damien, who had been quietly watching the proceedings with an amused air, slipped out to answer it. 

There was a quiet murmuring of exchanged greetings in the hallway, and the conversation in the living room started up again, the agents delighting in ganging up to tease their poor supremely dictatorial boffin. 

Then suddenly, Q cried out, “Oh, no!”

At this, everyone in the room went on high alert. Weapons appeared out of a variety of creative hiding places. 

“Now,” said the man in the doorway, with a cheeky grin, completely at ease despite the many guns pointed at him by jumpy secret service agents, “is that any way to greet an old friend, Danny Drake?”

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?” Danny Drake, aka Q, moaned dramatically. 

By this time, all of the guns had gone down, but the younger generation of agents remained twitchy for the most part. The older generation, however, knew exactly who this man was and why Danny Drake had reacted that way, for the man was, in fact, Sam Carmichael, formerly known as 007, Damien Drake’s successor and James Bond’s predecessor in the position. 

Carmichael had been especially well known for his charm, good looks, willingness to kill when necessary, and his near-supernatural ability to leave destruction behind him wherever he went. This last point, of course, was a sort of unofficial prerequisite to being 007. 

Sam Carmichael, still charming and good-looking, was now no longer licensed to kill due to his retirement, which had in consequence reduced his proclivity to destroy things on a monthly or sometimes weekly basis. 

Sam shrugged in response to his nephew’s dismayed question. “The girls are at their own parties, and I’m not invited because I’m a man, and that, for some unfathomable reason, makes me an unacceptable guest. I called your dad up to see if he had room for an unwanted middle-aged ex-spy for Christmas this year.”

“Oh, poor you,” Q pooh-poohed, rolling his eyes. 

“Well?” Still  _ very  _ charming, yes. 

“Well, alright,” Q relented, sighing gustily, and definitely hiding a big grin behind the sulk, “I  _ guess  _ you can have a drink or two.”

He got up to hug his uncle tightly, belying his words, while his father mixed up Sam’s drink of choice. 

Sam did what all of the guests so far had done that night: he checked Q’s wounds and tutted over them. “Danny, kiddo, you’re not supposed to get shot at, for Christ’s sake,” he scolded. “Leave that to the field agents.”

“You’d think I was trying to get shot, the way you all go on and on about it,” Q grumbled. He deflected the attention away from himself; he was, after all, rather good at that, if not quite up to the level of super-spies. “He’s the one who keeps dying, but no one seems to care about that,” he said, gesturing to Bond, who was hovering nearby, eager to greet the older man.

Sam let his nephew get away with it. “Still alive, are you, Bond?” he nodded at the younger agent, whom he had saved once in a pinch at Q’s last-minute, last-ditch request. 

“Yes, sir,” Bond replied, “I’m evidently rather hard to kill.”

“Good man,” Sam said with a smirk, “Someone’s got to keep our darling Q on his toes.” 

Bond laughed, and introduced his colleagues to his predecessor. “This is Sam Carmichael. He saved my arse last year.”

“Last year?” Edward said, “How--?”

“Q said he had a mysterious old friend nearby.”

“Of course he did.”

“Say,” Caleb said, “How do we know that he hasn’t already taken over the world, and we just haven’t noticed? He even has the evil mastermind cat.”

As one, the agents all looked at Ada, the white Persian, who at that moment, was terrorizing poor Horatio. The golden retriever, much bigger than the small cat, was trying to hide under the table.

Q slid over to his father, who was talking quietly with Stuart and Ivar and laughing. “Dad, why did you think it was a good idea to have all three living 007s under one roof? Specifically,  _ my  _ roof?” 

He made no effort to lower his voice to be polite. He knew that everyone was listening in anyway, and that no one would take his comments amiss. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t love them all...separately. But together, and with so many other double-ohs and ex-double-ohs in the room, it was an absolute nightmare. They’d be lucky if the house managed to stay intact that night.

“What are you talking about?” Drake smirked, knowing exactly what was going through his son’s head, “It’s a brilliant idea!”

Q threw himself on the sofa next to his dad. “A destructive idea, you mean.”

Ivar Bryce laughed out loud. “Destructive? You’ve been a holy terror since you were in diapers, kid, so let your old man have his fun where he can get it these days.”

That did it. 

The younger agents all began clamoring for stories about Q growing up, and the older agents, damn them, obliged.

Q soon gave up protesting and scooped up the nearest pet to cuddle. Ada, Countess Lovelace curled up in his lap, purring contentedly, finally taking her attention off of Horatio, who slunk off gratefully. Turing had long ago retreated to some hidden corner of the house to escape the excessive number of humans in his feline sanctuary.

Eve sat down next to him. “Really, Q. You brought this on yourself, you know.” She patted his head like that of a sad puppy as he groaned at her in response. “Cheer up,” she said lightly, “They’re only so interested because they love you.”

“Oh really? I thought it was because they’re spies and they’re stocking up on blackmail material. So are you, for that matter.”

He was right; she was certainly cataloguing each embarrassing tidbit for future use.

Victoria slunk over, smiling over the rim of her champagne glass. “It’s because they’re spies...and they love you.”

“Wonderful. A house full of assassins who all love me. Just what I wanted for Christmas. Maybe they’ll even blow up my house.”

“Careful what you wish for, luv,” Eve snorted.

. . . . .

They were soon all rather pleasantly buzzed, and a call went out for toasts. 

“To quartermasters, past and present.”

This was met with loud cheers.

“And to your Q: May he reign as long as  _ our _ Q did,” Stuart Thomas said with false solemnity, raising his glass. 

“Hear, hear.” Ivar Bryce held up his beer. “May he live to be as nuts as the Qs before him.”

“I’ll be batty soon enough if this lot keeps coming back with both themselves and their equipment in pieces,” Q muttered into his own glass. The tips of his ears were pink. 

Being praised for his accomplishments was all very well and good, and he could accept it with all the dignity in the world. It was another thing to be nearly drowned in love and appreciation from his colleagues and family. Because really, he was only doing his job.

Sensing that it was time to change the subject and ease his quartermaster’s mortification, Caleb asked with too much innocence in his voice to be at all convincing, “Aren’t  _ you  _ the most recently injured person here, Q?”

As predicted, Q glared back immediately. “That can soon be remedied.”

“Ooohhhhh,” was heard all around.

“Five quid on Q,” Eve announced, as was her wont as MI6’s unofficial bookmaker. “Any takers?”

Caleb scoffed. “Not even I, thank you. I’m not going up against him.”

Q smiled a grin that was all teeth. “Scared, 009? Of a scrawny boffin like me?”

“Terrified,” replied the agent easily, “and with good reason. I’ve learned my lesson about judging books by their covers. Especially harmless-looking boffins who look like a stiff wind will knock them over, who are in reality experts in aikido and capoeira.”

Bond sniggered. “Haven’t we all underestimated him? By the way, Q, you still have spots. I should have gotten you spot cream for Christmas.”

(Eve began to take new bets: Q vs. Bond)

“And you’re past due for retirement, Bond,” Q snarked back goodnaturedly, “Perhaps I should furnish you with a walking stick?”

“Are you going to have me hauled away for scrap?” Bond asked, referring to their first meeting, in which Q, the little twerp, had implied that Bond’s time was coming to a close.

“What, for joking about my age?,” Q said cooly, “I could have ruined you years ago, if I wanted to.”

Bond snickered. “From what I’ve heard, you could have ruined me from your cradle.”

“In my nappies, no less.”

“Before your first bottle of milk?”

“Alright, the two of you,” Damien Drake cut in, laughing, “Danny, Bond. Why don’t you help me with the pies? There’s Victoria’s cake, too.”

“Yes, Mummy,” Q chirped.

Bond whacked Q gently in the back of the head as he passed by him. “Respect your father, young whippersnapper.”

Q shoved him back with his good shoulder, grinning. “Decrepit fossil.”

“Anklebiter.”

“Prehistoric relic.”

“Now, children,” Drake said, “It’s Christmas. Play nice.”

“Yes, Mummy,” the miscreants both chorused.

The senior Drake gave them an affronted look that made Q dissolve into giggles and Bond grin unrepentantly.

. . . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victoria Winslow is from the retired spy comic/movie series _RED._ She’s played by Helen Mirren and is a retired MI6 agent. RED stands for Retired and Extremely Dangerous. I’m really only borrowing the idea of the character. 
> 
> Same goes for Sam Carmichael. He’s technically the Pierce Brosnan character from _Mamma Mia!_ but not really. In my ‘verse, he was 007 before Daniel Craig’s James Bond was assigned the designation. 
> 
> Stuart Thomas is listed in the James Bond Wiki as a 005 who moved on from being a double-oh due to an eye defect. Any descriptions of him are from my own imagination.
> 
> Ivar Bryce is my Felix Leiter character equivalent in Timothy Dalton’s _License to Kill_ (the one who got mauled by sharks on his wedding night, played by David Hedison). I was originally going to use David Hedison’s Felix Leiter as Felix Leiter, but the new movies with Daniel Craig have already introduced a Felix Leiter played by Jeffrey Wright, who I also like. So in this ‘verse, Wright’s Leiter is Felix Leiter, and Hedison’s Leiter is renamed Ivan Bryce. Ivan Bryce was a friend of Ian Fleming’s whose middle name he used as inspiration for the Felix character.


End file.
